


A Greater Appreciation for Poetry

by sumhowe_sailing



Series: The poets say what we cannot [1]
Category: Vingt mille lieues sous les mers | Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, too much poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9982700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: Some things are not easy to talk about - that's why we have poetry.





	1. A Modern Diogenes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer, I read the book a few months ago and couldn't remember a lot of the details - also, I didn't have a copy of the book on hand when I wrote this to look them up. E.g. I don't remember what kind of books he had in his library, or exactly what year the story started (I think it's ~1860's, so I'm keeping all the books/poems to what was published by then).

The first time Professor Aronnax found his own book open on the table in the library, corrections carefully penciled into the margins, he thought perhaps it was just a coincidence. He knew that Captain Nemo had read his little book—he’d told him so himself—but hadn’t expected to find out just what he thought of the mistakes Aronnax now knew he had made. The second time he found it there, open to a new place with a fresh set of notes, he began to become skeptical. By the third time, it was clearly deliberate. Aronnax was glad, in some ways, that the Captain had the tact to point out his mistakes this way. After all, he was usually so forthright about his knowledge and observations, and the Professor wasn’t sure how well his pride would stand the onslaught of Nemo’s blunt honesty.

But he would have liked to discuss it all the same. He had found that he really liked the Captain’s company. There was something about him that was simply captivating; Aronnax felt he could listen to him talk forever and never be bored. And besides, if he could treat the matter so tactfully this way, perhaps he could be sensitive vis-à-vis as well? But every time he thought about bringing it up, Captain Nemo suddenly introduced some fascinating new story or specimen into the conversation, and Aronnax would forget all about his own insignificant book. What was that in the face of everything this man could teach him? Still, he wanted the Captain to know that he had seen his corrections, and that he appreciated both his consideration and his honesty.

Then, one day, he walked into the library, and there was his book again. He had not seen the Captain in several days and had been longing for his company; this unexpected contact with the Captain’s mind made him smile. Apparently even when he was too busy to entertain the Professor, he was not too busy to think of him. He examined the comments at length, short though they were, charmed by how much Nemo could say or imply so concisely. Truly, the man was a marvel. Then, setting the book aside, he began to wander the shelves. He did not want anything serious and absorbing—he was expecting to be interrupted by Ned Land soon, and he did not want to be disturbed while reading something that mattered. After ruling out several of the scientific treatises available, on a whim he decided to look through the fiction instead. This was too trite for his present mood, he soon found, and instead he settled on a happy medium.

As he lounged with a large volume of Greek history, Aronnax found himself only half-focused on the text. He was taking in the stories on the page, but he was also thinking of how to thank Captain Nemo for his polite annotations. At some point, he realized he had just read the same page three times in a row, he was so distracted. He sighed and was about to give up on the book, when he actually did notice what he was reading. It was a story about a philosopher who was cast out of his city, who wandered about scorning mankind and searching for truth, carrying a lantern through the streets in broad daylight, claiming to be searching for an honest man. Aronnax read the story again, an idea beginning to form in his mind. The similarity was so striking—he thought perhaps Nemo, with his strange sense of humor, might not mind the comparison. He searched about for a pen. Then, after careful thought, wrote as neatly as he could in the cramped margin: _I believe I have met a modern Diogenes. I am so grateful to him for showing me the light._

No sooner had he written it than he began to regret it. Not the idea, necessarily, but the execution. Surely he could have come up with something better than _that_ if he had just taken a little more time? But scratching it out would be worse than leaving it, so leave it he did. He made sure to set it exactly where Nemo always left his book, open as if by accident. Then, suddenly worried about Ned Land or his faithful Conseil coming in and seeing it and trying to interpret it, Aronnax decided to seek them out instead and keep them clear of the library until he was sure Nemo had had time to find his note.

The next time he saw the Captain, there was a glimmer in his eye that Aronnax was not accustomed to. Although he made no mention of it, he decided to take this as a sign that Nemo had found his message and found it amusing. Suddenly it occurred to the Professor that “amusing” might also mean “laughable”; what if he had just made himself an utter fool in the eyes of this man he regarded so highly? He wanted to know—to apologize, perhaps, for his presumption—yet didn’t dare ask. If Nemo wanted to discuss it, he would. And if he didn’t, no power on earth could persuade him to. For the rest of the evening, he writhed uncomfortably, unable to simply enjoy the conversation in the face of his acute embarrassment. That night, he could not sleep. As he tossed and turned, he made a decision: he would mention it to Nemo the next chance he got, consequences be damned. Asking had to be better than wondering in agony what the Captain thought of him.

The next morning he rushed to the library, hoping to find Captain Nemo there. Instead, he found a book lying open in the usual spot. It was not his book, nor even the one he’d left for the Captain. It was a slim volume, which proved upon closer inspection to be a collection of poetry. A quick glance down the page showed that the Captain had only added one line of observation here—to a poem entitled _Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition_. The title alone seemed so apt to Nemo’s character that Aronnax had to laugh. Though he had little interest in poetry in general, he read this one (mercifully short) piece attentively. It was not so bitter as the title implied. Indeed, that seemed to be the point, for Captain Nemo’s annotation read: _There is more optimism in the Cynic than you credit_.  He read it again, and reconsidered. The poet’s optimism was based on the knowledge that that which disgusted him so was dying—so, was it perhaps doubly cynical? Was Nemo’s comment in keeping--was it intentionally ironic? He pondered over it for a long time, rereading the poem again and again, before coming away with the heart of the matter: Captain Nemo had not minded the form his message took and had responded in kind. Perhaps he would even do so again, if Aronnax could find some other passage to put before him.

This time, Aronnax chose the story deliberately. Only a short while after deciding on his course, he had remembered another old Greek story that seemed to fit. It took longer to find a volume of Greek mythology than it did for him to choose the story, and longer still to think of what exactly he would say. He read over the story carefully; the king of the gods had swallowed the goddess of cleverness, but could not prevent the result of their union, and the goddess of wisdom and war had come into the world. It was more or less as he remembered it, but how exactly could he say just why he wanted to bring it Nemo’s attention? And then he realized—it was the same reason he had marked Diogenes. The allegory was almost perfect. Some invisible woe had swallowed a man’s life—a clever, powerful, determined, relentless man—and instead of destroying him, it had brought forth into the world Captain Nemo. Nemo was not a Diogenes after all, for Diogenes was scorned and shunned and at the mercy of the world; the goddess and the Captain were not. The only question was, what took the place of Zeus? After some consideration, he took up his pen. _A more fitting role, I think. But how does one cast the King?_

It was bolder than his last foray, he knew. Before, he had simply wanted to express acknowledgment and gratitude. He had, incidentally, expressed an opinion of Nemo’s character, whether good or ill he still was not quite certain. But this was prying where he may very well not be welcome. This presented a much more real possibility that he would be cut off from the Captain’s company and goodwill. It was risky, but his curiosity out-weighed his caution. He left the book, and left the library behind.

Waiting to learn if Nemo had found his inquiry was more difficult than before. Not only was he more anxious of the result, but he had less to occupy him in the meantime. Then he had had Ned Land and Conseil to distract him, and then he had been warmly received by the Captain that very night. Today he could not find either of his companions. He knew they had grown exceedingly close, though what two such vastly different people found to talk about so much of the time was beyond him. Still, he could not help being a touch annoyed that they were nowhere to be found just when he had greatest need of them. He thought of reading—but no. He would have to go back to the library to get a book, and he by no means wanted to risk stumbling across Captain Nemo in the act of finding his bold question. Instead, he wandered aimlessly about the ship, half-hoping for an invitation from the Captain, until he was so exhausted he felt justified in taking himself off to bed.

His hopes were unrealized. The Captain did not seek him out or send for him that evening, or the next, or the next. His anxiety mounted each day. He tried to calm himself with the reminder that this was not unusual, that the Captain frequently disappeared for days, sometimes a whole week, at a time. But some part of his mind could not resist connecting this long silence with an imagined cold fury towards the Professor’s intrusive probing. He had avoided the library all this time, just in case the Captain had not had time to find the book yet, but on the fourth day his patience was stretched to the limit. His two companions had hidden themselves away again and if he did not have something to read he would go mad.

His relief at seeing a different book in the usual place was almost overwhelming. It was another small volume—more poetry. The given title of the piece was crossed out; beside it was neatly printed _To One Too Inquisitive_. There was no other annotation. Reading the piece, Aronnax could see why—none was necessary. Phrases—entire stanzas—stood out clearly in answer to his question: _And dost thou ask, what secret woe / I bear, corroding joy and youth?_ And _What Exile from himself can flee?_ And again _What is that worst? Nay do not ask— / In pity from the search forbear; / Smile on—nor venture to unmask / Man’s heart, and view the Hell that’s there._ He could scarcely have hoped for a better answer. This gentle rebuff seemed to say, “I will forgive you for asking once, but be sure not to do so again.” And still there was something about the poem that seemed…confessional. It confessed to profound weariness and a darker spirit than Aronnax had expected; he would admit the suffering, though not the cause.

He came away more encouraged than perhaps Captain Nemo had intended. He would not pry into that secret woe again (leastways not yet), but he was enjoying this irregular correspondence. The thrill of the responses more than made up for the anxiety of waiting. And it was easier to express some things when _not_ face to face. Besides, there were some thoughts he wanted to express that he did not have clear words for—and he had found that drawing these parallels was much easier. Perhaps they left more room for interpretation, but was that such a bad thing? He thought not. He was not sure how long the Captain would humor him, but he intended to take advantage of this unusual system of communication for as long as he could.

Only now he did not know what to say. He could not go on forever pointing out figures in history and mythology and saying, “I see you thus.” He had to find something else to say, some other thought that only these stories—or, perhaps, poems if he could force himself to read enough to find one that worked—could tell.

He browsed the books for hours. He started with the histories, then moved to Greek mythologies, but nothing seemed quite right. Or rather, everything that seemed right was in the same train as his previous notes. He saw Nemo everywhere, and wanted to tell him so. By the end of the day he had not found anything new to say. The next morning, he decided perhaps he would take a leaf out of the Captain’s book and begin browsing poetry. He had expected it to be a tedious task, and though some of the poems were indeed dull or too trite, his dedication to finding the perfect poem made it a much pleasanter time than he could have hoped.

Two more days went on this way. Finding the right poem to say what you can’t is much harder when you don’t know what it is you can’t say. Then at last, just as he was beginning to give up on the idea, he flipped a page in a stormy volume of passion and death, and there it was. _The City in the Sea_. There was nothing terribly profound in the poem itself; it was simply a very pretty poem about the wonders of the deep. He was surprised to find himself thinking so—when had he started to judge the beauty of poetry? Supposedly in the last few days. Well, evidently Captain Nemo had more influence over his thoughts than he knew. He took up the pen—he did not have to hunt for it now; they had taken to leaving it on the table—and added his observation. _Even the greatest poet could not imagine half the treasures you have shown me_.

It was a very simple message. He had retreated back into gratitude and their mutual love for this unsullied, wondrous realm. He knew it could not give offense, and wondered without fear how the Captain might respond. He set the book in its place, and walked away.


	2. The Problem with Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Aronnax and Captain Nemo have been flirting via poetry, but the professor isn't sure what this portends.

He did not know quite how it had happened. It must have been very gradually. The Captain had responded to his poem in kind, and he had done the same again. They had gone on for weeks now swapping poetry about the sea and its beauty and then added other beauties and somehow Professor Aronnax now found himself sitting in the library reading a love poem the Captain had picked out for him. A love poem. He was not shocked: merely bemused. If he were to be shocked, surely it would have come a week ago when he found himself reading a poem which asked _Nothing in the world is single / All things by a law divine / In one spirit meet and mingle-- / Why not I with thine?_ Bold as this was, the second stanza was bolder still, asking _What are all these kissings worth / If thou kiss not me?_ These lines were underlined, but there had been no word added, no observation made, no question posed. None had been needed. Aronnax had come to understand him, and knew, he thought, even before this, about the real nature of the attachment that had grown between them. So he had not been shocked then, and was not shocked now.

It had taken him two days to seek out a fitting response. He never could find just the right thing straight away, as the Captain always seemed to do. He did not mind reading poetry anymore—in fact, he confessed to himself, he enjoyed it. The subtlety of it, the intricacy, the beauty, the unique way of making things that would sound forced, awkward, downright laughable in any other form instead deeply moving—he thanked Nemo for helping him to find a greater appreciation of this art.

He reread the poem before him for the third time. It began _Come live with me, and be my love_ , and ended _For thou thyself art thine own bait: / That fish, that is not catch’d thereby, / Alas, is wiser far than I._ Again, no further notes, only a few lines marked for emphasis. So, he thought, I’m a fisherman, am I?  He smiled at the notion of himself catching Captain Nemo. As if that were possible. The Captain, he was sure, was completely in charge of the situation. Aronnax had never wavered in his self-confidence before becoming a passenger on the _Nautilus_ , but he really could not understand what the Captain saw in him. He, on the other hand, only wondered that he had not been ensnared by the Captain sooner.

_A fisherman_ , he thought again. He seemed to remember another poem about a fisherman—a less fortunate one than this happy fellow. He was sure he’d read something in…in what? It had been a thick volume, he thought, and all by one author, not an anthology. That should help him narrow it down. As he began scanning the shelves for anything that fit this description, he struggled to remember more about the poem. A fisherman had caught a trout, was it?—there was something about a mermaid. He began flipping through one of the books he’d pulled off the shelf. Wondering if he was just wasting his time, he tried to think if the poem in question would even be a suitable answer to the Captain.

It took him three hours to find the poem. Still, it was better than his usual time. Reading it again, he was very glad he had made the effort. A fisherman by a stream met some nautical spirit that promised if he _Couldst see how happy fishes live / Under the stream so clear, / Thyself would plunge into the stream, / and live forever there._ Was that not just what the Captain had done—risen from the sea and promised he would be happy to live forever beneath it? And when the spirit reached out, _It clasped his feet, I wis’ / A thrill went through his yearning heart, / As when two lovers kiss!_ Did not Aronnax feel just such a thrill every time the Captain brushed him by accident; did not his heart leap like a lover’s every time the Captain came into the room? For a long time he had tried to deny it, but what was the use in that? The rules of the society he had known all his life did not apply here. If the Captain made the first advance, why not gratify their mutual desires? So long as they could keep it from Conseil and Ned Land, whose hearts and values were still ashore and who he was sure would not understand, where was the harm?

It was all very well in theory, but he wished he had the opportunity to test his resolve. As he sat there, fiddling with the pen and trying to decide what to write, he tried to remember when he had last seen Captain Nemo. Had it been two weeks, or three? In either case, it had been before the Captain had left that bold poem for him to find. Now he suddenly doubted if he was simply too busy to put in an appearance, or if he was actively avoiding the Professor’s company. He had even doubted several times if Nemo’s love poems had been intended as such. After all, they did have such nice imagery about the sea or its creatures—suppose Nemo had only meant to show that off? But even at his most cynical, Aronnax could not truly believe this. The passages Nemo had underlined had made his meaning very clear. Then why hadn’t he seen him for so long?

After a while more of absent-mindedly twirling the pen, he wrote, _A fisherman I may be, but not as you suggest._ He stared down at the poem, not sure he was satisfied. His answers always seemed so timid in comparison to the Captain’s. It dawned on him that perhaps this was the cause for his protracted absence. Perhaps he was waiting for greater assurance that his advances, should they come, would be welcome? Was Captain Nemo nervous about all this? The Professor scoffed at the notion—Nemo knew them both too well to fall prey to such a misapprehension, surely. All the same, he underlined the entire last stanza before he left the library. Just in case.

The next morning, he rushed back to the library again to see if there was a response yet. The book he had set there was undisturbed. He read over the poem again, grimaced at his note and the desperate way in which he’d underlined the entire stanza. He hated it when the Captain did not respond right away. Not, he told himself, because he could not wait to see what the Captain would lay before him next, but because he hated having the chance to second-guess himself and regret the course he’d taken. But he did not put the book away. He simply grit his teeth and went back to his room again.

He spent the day with his companions, watching the wonders of the sea pass just inches from their faces. No matter how many days they spent in this manner, Professor Aronnax would never tire of it. What worlds of knowledge were at his fingertips here, what opportunities! And to think, he had once been content—happy—to live on shore and make “educated” guesses about the creatures and phenomena that lurked beneath the surface. When the harpooner began to grumble more than usual about dinner, the little party broke up. Conseil and Ned went to find dinner, but the Professor, who found he wasn’t hungry, went off to the library instead.

“Professor,” the unmistakable voice was greeting him before he was even fully through the door. “I was just thinking of you.”

Aronnax did not know what to say. He had pictured this scene over and over, even dreamt about it; but now that he was here, he did not know how to proceed. The Captain noticed his hesitation, and beckoned him to the shelf where he stood. Numbly, he went.

“Do you know the problem with poetry, Professor?”

Numbly still, he shook his head. Was this really happening?

“The problem,” Captain Nemo said calmly, “is that even when a poem seems perfectly transparent, there is so much room for misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Had he misunderstood? Was this a reprimand—a warning? But he had really thought…

“Oh yes. The only way to get a poem to mean exactly what you want it to, is to write it yourself. And even then,” he added after a pause, frowning slightly, “there may still be room for error.”

“Unless, of course,” Professor Aronnax responded, barely aware of what he was saying but needing to say _something_ , “you are not quite sure what you mean. Then poetry’s ambiguities may be more blessing than burden.”

The Captain looked hard at him for a long moment before saying levelly, “I am fortunate enough not to suffer such indecision.”

“Fortunate indeed.”

“I want,” he added firmly as he turned back to the shelves, “a poem that will make an unmistakable, unequivocal declaration.”

“I—I hardly think there is a poem up to the task.”

“You think not?” he asked, turning again to the Professor, who found himself extremely confused and a touch overwhelmed. “No, no perhaps you are right,” the Captain consented, as though it had not been his notion to begin with. “Perhaps I ought to use some clearer language than that of the bards.”

“With your command of the world’s tongues, that should be an easy task.” The Professor was rewarded with a small smile for this.

“I do not think that is where the answer lies. When language fails to make things clear,” Nemo asserted, stepping closer and placing a hand on Aronnax’s shoulder, “ _action_ must carry the day.”

And with that, the Captain brought his other hand to the back of Aronnax’s neck, holding him gently in place, and inclined his head to press their lips together. And Aronnax, relieved to have all doubt cleared away at last, clung to him and did his best to return the welcome pressure. Even as he sank into the embrace, Professor Aronnax could not help acknowledging a niggling voice in the back of his mind that cried out that the Captain was wrong—for this, too, was poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing in the world is single..." is Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Love's Philosophy"  
> "Come live with me, and be my love..." is John Donn'e "The Bait"  
> and the other poem is Goethe's "The Fisherman"

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Nemo retitles is Byron's "To Inez."  
> "The City in the Sea" is by Edgar Allan Poe.


End file.
